as the orthodoxy spews and preaches its decades old knowledge I go back to the instinctual. the infamous "they" ask me to put on a tie and coat I amble unshaven in shorts to where I want to go, huaraches slapping on concrete.

I just look and stare, take the pills they prescribe: "you'll feel better." nights of pain and thoughts of suicide scare me awake. on my back adjusting to darkness and slivered light and moon shadows, then deep appreciation of what I have lived. sitting up, legs dangling into black I hear Rosie breathing, Tristan gaming, Aidan studying a film. I see Jonas reading trends as they spike and drop in his office, the glare off the laptop onto his face reflecting on his glasses in reds and green blips.

before long I think back to childhood, music, words, movies. back to unorthodoxy. herbs and shaman cure scenes, charms and salves, teas from British bands and coffee wraps tight on my feet as a shivering fever kept me awake like now. My mother always there, sitting in the dark. I always got better. placebo or not, I always got better. I will get better again. It is in my story, my tri-cultural build, my homegrown optimism, my being. it's who I tell myself I am. & until this fragile shell returns to it's mysterious beginnings I will keep it up and not give in.